


neither one thing nor the other

by Splintered_Star



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Fairy Tale Style, Multi, Polyamory, Post Game, aerith lives au, ressurection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-09 00:14:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10399359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splintered_Star/pseuds/Splintered_Star
Summary: One upon a time there was a girl, and she was not a princess.(She wasn't about to let someone else end her story, either.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Aerith's Moving Castle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3224909) by [sanctum_c](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanctum_c/pseuds/sanctum_c). 



> this was supposed to be a remix. that is not... precisely what happened.
> 
> challenge by icynovas, beta by veleda_k

 

Once upon a time, there was a girl, and she was not a princess.

She was not asleep for a thousand years, or trapped in a tower, or at least not for long. The closest she ever got to a glass coffin was - well, we'll get there. Her bloodline mattered, like a princess' does, but she was not born to rule.

(She was born to die, some of the stories said. She was born to be laid on an altar, innocent and pure, a pressed flower even before her death.

Those stories always made her laugh, later.)

There was a man who was not a dragon even though he hoarded gold, and a wizard who would have hated the idea that he worked with anything other than science and logic, and a man who thought he was a monster and so became one. 

There was a boy who was someone else, who had been broken apart and fused together again in the wrong shape. There was a girl with bruised knuckles, with fire in her memories and her blood. And they loved the girl who was not a princess - they loved her enough to chase her across the world as she walked, led by destiny and duty and Knowledge. The world was growing darker and the story going all wrong, but she held Power in her hands and in her blood and in her soul, and there was still a chance.

She walked through snow and ice and the whispers of echoing trees, and stepped through crystal clear waters that reflected her and so much more than her. She felt refracted, infinite, and yet so incredibly small. But this was where it had to be, the axis the planet turned around, and so the girl who was so much more than a princess entered, and knelt, and prayed.

The man who would be a monster watched from above, arrogant and angry and torn by the whispers in the bottom of his mind. The girl knew he was there (of course she did) but refused to care and did not acknowledge him. He was less important than the echoing everything around her, and she knew that he hated that, so she made sure that he knew.

(She was not afraid. There was nothing to be afraid of. There was everything to be afraid of. She would not let that stop her.)

The people who love her stood on the steps as she prayed, as the man who would be a monster reached into the mind of the boy who was someone else – grabbing the shattered pieces of him and twisting as he had been twisted, trying to break as he had been broken. But it wasn’t enough, could never be enough (later, the girl will tell the boy she was proud of him, that she never doubted him for a moment) – so the man who would be a monster slaughtered her as if she were a lamb on his altar, as if killing her would allow him to raise himself up to godhood.

It was too late, of course it was too late – her prayers and her power had sunk into the ground, into the groundwater, and all of his efforts could only delay the end.

Still, the not-a-princess died, and was laid in a coffin of water clear as glass. She was loved and she was mourned and the heroes marched on with a gaping hole in their hearts.

(and the girl thought: no. no, this is not how my story ends. no, I will not let this stand. no, there is so much more I want to see. no, I wasn't /done/.)

The boy who was someone else shattered once more, and the girl with bruised knuckles sat and breathed fire into his lungs, forging him until he was not anyone but himself.

And the man who would be a monster died, almost as mortal as any other. The power that had sunk into the ground and the water and the blood was released from his hold, and spilled out over the planet in a flood - not gentle, but needed.

(and the girl stared down the glowing ever after and said: It is finished. I am the last child and this is not my time, this is not my death. I will not allow it.

The ever after said: who are you to make demands of us?

And the girl said: I am the only left who can.)

 

 

 

There is a pool of water, remaining untouched by devastation and disease. After everything, the boy who is not anyone but himself and the girl with bruised knuckles go there, together, drawn by dreams and truth. They stare into the pool, silent, and then reach down into the water as one.

(There is a secret: the purest version of a thing is always itself, no matter where it is or how many places it is reflected. There is a flame that is all flames; there is a mountain that all other mountains are reflections of. There is water that is all water, which holds all streams and rivers and lakes in its depths.)

The coffin of water clear as glass shatters, and the not-a-princess opens her eyes. Her beloveds help her out onto dry land and she laughs, tumbling into their arms, dripping wet with water that turns to flower petals as it falls. 

They've started calling you a witch, the boy says, after, when they're tangled up in a pile of love and damp petals; a water witch. The girl - the witch- laughs, and decides that it suits.

 

 

I want to explore, the girl says. I want to have a home, the boy says.

I want to do /everything/, the witch says.

 

 

(The first thing she does, of course, is visit her mother. They both laugh and they both weep and the girl whispers apologies into her mother's ear. I'm sorry for leaving, she says, I'm sorry for dying, she says. I'm sorry for leaving again, she almost says. But her mother just smiles. I was never going to keep you, she says, I always knew that.  Stay safe, her mother whispers, bittersweet smiles tucked into her daughter's hair, stay safe and be happy and free, that's all I've ever wanted for you.

-Oh, and visit me every once in a while, her mother says, laughing.

The girl laughs, and agrees, and promises to be bring back as many souvenirs as she can find.)

 

 

 

The hell house that her mother slain years and years ago lays where it always has. She grew up in its shell, felt the remnants of its energy around her through her childhood and danced through its ghosts.

It was not dead, she thinks, smiling and twirling her staff, but sleeping.

The girl is the only one left, is not a princess but is a witch, and she has one miracle left to play. She kneels, and in the sudden sweet rainstorm, the hell house shudders and shakes and rises up on its spindly legs to walk once more.

Hello, the witch says, do you remember me? Did you feel it when I drew on your walls and walked on your floors? Do you want to come with us? We'll build extensions, if you want!

The house totters, and kicks its legs as if remembering how to use them, and then kneels down so that its doorway is in reach. The witch smiles, waves to her beloveds, and climbs in.

 

 

They explore the world, and explore themselves and each other, carving out the moments that they never had the chance to claim while the world was in danger.

The girl with bruised knuckles climbs mountains, racing a young queen to the top – the witch spends months in a flame-lit canyon, learning and teaching as much as she can – the boy who is himself fixes things to pay for passage, mends their house when it starts to lag, taking joy in the act of mending things that had been broken.

Their home knows them, and knows their friends, and is wary of any other. Not once does it awaken late at night and skitter away from strangers that wander too closely – and once, a flock of chocobos, which makes them laugh for days.

(There is one place they do not visit – there is no place on this planet that does not have ghosts and sorrow, but there is one place where those ghosts are too familiar, too close to home. They have faced those demons – now they will let them and themselves rest.)

They live, bruises and fractures turning into scars, and they love each other – and that is enough.

 

 

Her mother dies, eventually. The witch weeps over her grave and where her tears fall, flowers bloom - white lilies and purple blooms and bright blue blossoms winding their way around the wooden memorial. This is not the end, she knows better than most - the ever-after holds no terror for her. And yet, and yet - this was not the end but it was An End, and that was enough for grief.

The witch - the girl- cuts her hair that day, and lets the ribbons wind around her mother's grave marker and tangle with new growths. The flowers smell sweet, and the day is calm, and the girl mourns as much as she is at peace.

She is more than a girl - and yet, still a girl, both human and not, unwilling to give up either for the sake of its opposite. She has always lived in the spaces between same and other, and she will not choose between grief and joy.

 

 

And one day, on their treks, there is a girl. She walks up to their house without fear and the house allows her close. The boy who is himself lets her in, and the girl with scarred knuckles makes sure she is fed, and the witch sells her a flower without really thinking of why and chatters through the afternoon.

s

(And the witch tells a story, certain that the girl will not recognize it, about a girl who as not a princess and a man who would be a monster, about a boy who wasn't anyone but himself and a girl with bruised knuckles. Not the full story, but enough.)

They leave that place soon, never staying in once place for long. They visit those who still know their names, and the places they once were - flowers left by a mineshaft, dances lit by flames and their host's tail.  They visit the man with the cat, and the no longer young queen laughs and climbs their house just to prove that she still can.

And then they return, and the girl is there yet again - and this time the witch asks her name, and thinks, oh of course, of course. Her name is Marlene, or Elmyra, or Jessie - and the witch tells her the truth, and introduces her to the house.  They’ll make sure to visit here next year, and the year after, and the year after.

And the end of the story is this - a child watching them walk away, waving; an old friendship honored and a new one forged.

and the end of the story is this: stories never really end.

 


End file.
